


Tearing Watson in Two

by Smushed



Series: Boys and their Business [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Rival!Moriarty, Sexual Content, Sexy Sherlock, Suits, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Workplace Relationship, boss!sherlock, employee!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smushed/pseuds/Smushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty wants what Sherlock has. And Jim takes what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tearing Watson in Two

**Author's Note:**

> Sequal to 'Love and Hate in the Workplace', I do hope you like it. There isn't any rape- but some non-con kisses and mild violence. I really do not wish to offend anyone, so please if you feel the need to inquire more about the non-con elements message me on Tumblr http://smush-ed.tumblr.com - On another note I hope you find it as sexy as the first! Thank you so much for all the lovely support it is much appreciated and without that I don't know if I would still be writing away as I have been. Also the TV industry I have based this AU in is completely fictional. (P.S. Spot the Shakespeare paraphrase)

John stared at the fluorescent green liquid in his glass. He took another sip, obviously his spontaneous decision to try something new and exciting on the cocktail menu had proved that he should stick to his guns and be boring John. He downed the last of the sickly sweet drink, (some sort of melon liqueur) and ordered a good old pint instead. Regardless of the reasonable price of his suit, John leaned his elbows on the bar, most likely wiping the rings from the remnants of sticky alcohol of the previous drinks that had laid there. He just needed to hold his face for a moment. To sigh into his palms. Through the gap between his fingers, he watched the bubbles swim to the foam at the top of his lager. Fantastic.

As he nursed his pint he thought of how perfect things had been with Sherlock. It turns out, the stress and agitation of work was because of pent up sexual frustration. He laughed slightly, a silent huff of some comical despair. He took another sip, letting the bitter amber fluid somehow comfort him. Where did it all go wrong? Typical. Anytime you have something nice it buggers off. It started when he said it. He scrunched his eyes as he cringed, remembering vividly that moment that he now regretted with all his being.

After particularly brilliant sex, they had resumed work (with hair slightly askew). As John placed some documents on Sherlock's desk, he placed a mug of tea on the oak, pecked Sherlock's temple and had _accidentally_ said 'I love you'. As if those three words could be a slip of the tongue- of course he meant them.

"I mean, is that it?" He murmured into the pint. There was no reciprocation, hardly any reaction, in fact- he had been ignored. It was blatant that he said it, his mouth was right next to his ear at the time for God's sake. So were they lovers? Just fuck buddies? Most likely- just boss and employee... With benefits. Always the way. Can't ask for more than what you get; you get what you're given or beggars can't be choosers, something along those lines. _Oh, halfway down my pint. When did that happen?_ He ordered another. He had to get drunk or at least tipsy. He couldn't remember his nightmares when he slept, and he certainly didn't want to remember his dreams. His best were of Sherlock. Why would his bloody mind tease him and torture him like that? Pathetic when your life is actually worse than your dreams, when you wake up and have to force yourself out of bed because you know that what is waiting for you in the waking world is nothing like your pathetically domestic dreams. Just disappointment. John felt his cheeks buzz with the warmth of the alcohol but carried on drinking.

Why had Sherlock changed? Surely it was obvious to that clever bastard just how he felt in the first place. He seemed to know everything else: what his Mum's dog had for breakfast or how many times he'd wanked in the week, probably even the infinite secrets and mysteries of life- so why was he oblivious to John's affections? What was different? Or maybe it was because things had become the same, regular, routine. Sherlock probably _bored_ of him. A lightbulb dully flickered in John's mind. That was it. He probably got bored of boring old John. Emphasis on old, he thought as he rubbed the creases on his forehead with a finger and thumb. He was definitely too old for this. Too old for the weight of dread in his gut or at the one sided infatuation with a man who is showing no interest in pursuing anything but work and sex, he couldn't really tell. 

He finished the warm dregs of his pint and ordered a double whiskey instead. Whiskey reminded him of Sherlock. He swirled the golden chestnut liquid, contemplating the headache he was going to have for mixing drinks, but then took a decent gob full anyway. Upon swallowing, some tosser had barged into his shoulder (or shoved him) he couldn't tell. The burning whiskey stalled at his throat and he managed to swallow it down but a coughing fit followed.

"What the-"

"Joooooohhhnnnn!" The Irish voice crooned, he felt a strong arm behind his shoulder and a firm hand grasp his upper arm in some sort of embrace.

Oh God, it was him. Jim Moriarty. Sherlock bloody hated him- debatably more than his brother, Mycroft. This man was the rival of the British Television channels, he brought all the American TV to Freeview for the nation to enjoy. It wasn't that Sherlock disliked American TV- as much as he would vouch that he hated it- it was more that _F.r.i.e.n.d.s., The Big Bang Theory, How I Met Your Mother, The Fresh Prince of Bel Air_ (and so on) had sucked away the majority of his teenage and young adult viewers. ("How can they repeat the same episodes that are over a decade old and still rake in our viewers?!" Sherlock had seethed one particular day after trying to revise a new show to air). It wasn't something that British television couldn't recover from, sometimes Sherlock just loved to make enemies.

"Johnny Boy! What're you drinking? Great! Two of these please!" Before John tried to say that he had only just ordered a drink, another one was slid in front of him. He was going to be wankered if he wasn't careful. Moriarty nudged John's arm in a friendly manner before pulling up a bar stool to sit beside him.

"So! How've you been?" Jim slicked back his hair with his palm before taking a sip of his drink, his hair was always so neat and perfect, the complete opposite of Sherlocks disheveled mess of curly locks. He had brown eyes that were so dark John swore they were black, but Sherlock's were so grey and metallic they seemed to have a million layers of endless detail. The more you stared at them the more detail you could see, like focusing at the midnight sky and noticing a blanket of stars. _Stop it John_ , he needed to not compare every person to Sherlock. He tried to look at Moriarty with less bias, and yes, he probably was devilishly handsome in some aspects. He seemed a decent guy, regardless of Sherlock's opinion- after all he has just topped up his Jameson's whiskey. John was about to reply but Moriarty filled the silence between them yet again.

"Good choice, by the way. Jameson's. It's Irish." He smiled with one eye brow raised and a little wink as he took a mouthful.

"Oh, yeah. Sherlock's favourite." John replied, he smiled but inside he thought (if Sherlock knew it was Irish, he probably wouldn't drink it, he was petulant like that).

"Ah, yes! Sherlock, and how is he?" He asked, staring right into John, before his eyes scanned him up and down.

"Yes, he's fine." John's lips fell unintentionally into a stiff line.

"Trouble in paradise?" Moriarty laughed, nudging John with his elbow again.

"What?" _How does he know?_

"Don't worry, John. I'm just rather observant, a bit like your Sherlock. No one else knows." He winked with an open mouth as the rim of his glass touched his bottom lip.

"Ah- Right." John smiled, watching the whiskey fly down Moriarty's throat. 

"Another please!" He smiled, charming as fuck to the barmaid. John had finished his first whiskey and was onto the one Moriarty had bought him. "Make it two, actually, if you don't mind darling." He licked his lips, and the barmaid became a little flustered as his demeanor bore right into her. "Thanks very much, Beautiful." 

"Oh- You don't have- Uh, Thanks." John stammered, his lips refusing to be as efficient as they usually are sober, he really was going to be drunk tonight. He eyed Moriarty's flirting, it was so fluent, graceful. When John did it, it was like digging a grave, he felt more and more unattractive the deeper he dug until he would just lie down in the ditch he had dug and wished it was possible to die from embarrassment. He was a little envious of that talent of Moriarty's. As much as it pained John, he would most likely have to use his pathetic flirting techniques soon. By the looks of his crashing and burning current (relationship?) thing with Sherlock. Without him realising, Morairty had already turned his attention back on him.  
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" John laughed, trying to fill the awkward silence, gesturing to his two tumblers of whiskey and laughing hesitantly. Moriarty didn't reply he just smiled and took another sip, his eyes flashing. _Right._ Why did he feel so awkward?

Moriarty had shuffled closer. "You look stressed?" He sounded concerned, it was weird to hear sincerity in a voice, he wasn't used to it, John was caught off guard.

"Hmm? Oh- I wouldn't say- I dunno." He laughed, a white teeth smile with false chuckle. But Moriarty didn't join in, he could see through it. He knew right away it was because of Sherlock. He pursed his lips, as Moriarty looked down at the ground before taking a swig of his whiskey. What was that look, empathy? "You alright?" John asked.

Moriarty also held a false smile, and it was odd how obvious it was to John. "It's nothing, nothing." One of his hands rubbed the leg of his trousers, anxious "Did you know Sherlock and I went to the same University?" He smiled with thin lips, but the smile continued to his eyes this time and John felt slightly relieved, he wasn't quite sure where that was going. Moriarty was so animated compared to what John was used to with the stiff posture and proper speech of his boss.

"Oh, no, he never mentioned. That's nice- were you roommates?" _Weird that it was never mentioned._

"Housemates, actually." Moriarty's eyes slid from contacts with John briefly. "More than, on the odd occasion." He sighed.

John felt a pang of jealousy, but curiosity killed the cat. "Oh? Was he terrible to live with?" He laughed, "I can imagine he was a good- friend- Did you- were you boyfriends?" He winced slightly as he a took another drink- not even smooth with the subtle interrogation there, John, well done.

"I wish." Moriarty smiled, it seemed sad, empty, there it was again. Empathy. 

"What went wrong?" John's alcohol flooded system made him bolder, more forward. He never knew anything about Sherlock's past lovers, now he had found one the whiskey whirring in his veins wouldn't allow this opportunity to slip through his fingers.

"Oh," Moriarty shuffled in his seat, his hands in his lap, preparing himself. "I- wouldn't want to jeopardise you both now with my own experiences John." He smiled, sincere again. 

"We're not- together." John felt physical pain in his chest out of his own admission. If Sherlock didn't love him, then no, they weren't... anything really. _Ow..._

"Well, if you're sure." He finished his drink and requested (sweetly) for the barmaid to just pass them the bottle. He tipped her generously and she thanked him with a slight bow which would have given the dapper Irishman a (purpose) full view of her round breasts. Moriarty winked but turned to John. John's hand was around his tumbler, and Moriarty's hand curled around it, John was in shock, the touch, another person, but it wasn't Sherlock. Moriarty topped him up (even though his glass was reasonably filled), and then slipped his hand away. _Oh_.

"You see, Sherlock and I..." He cleared his throat, "We worked well together. And we lived together in some kind of- mutual tranquil _weirdness_." He chuckled at the thought, as though the memories warmed him. John's drunk vision made him stare unconsciously at the end of Moriarty's tie before he blinked it away and smiled back. "We- uhh, you _know_ , started to have sex." John felt a stab in his chest- a physical blow from hearing the truth of Sherlock's past so honestly. The thought of Moriarty and Sherlock - it made him sad, it felt like his heart anchored down into his gut. "And I guess I took it the wrong way- I started to develop feelings for him. And well, he didn't take that too well." John noticed Moriarty's shoulders sink, he hadn't even realised that he was tense, he was staring at the physique of the man beside him. As though that would lessen the strike of hearing so sinister about the man he loved. Moriarty might has well have told him that he loved a demon walking the Earth. His back straightened, he grew defensive. Not his Sherlock.

"That- doesn't sound like him." John lied- how would he know, it had only been a fortnight since his confession. Moriarty lived past it. But how could he believe something that would destroy him.

"Oh- I'm sorry! I'm sure- he's changed. It's been years!" He smiled. But it didn't reassure John.

"Are you saying he's a sociopath? Incapable of feelings or-" 

"John, John." Moriarty cooed, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It's not like that."

"Sorry..." John sighed and took a huge gulp, although he was pretty certain that that was a bad decision. The small burst of anger shifted into something cold, depressing, it must have shown because Moriarty put a firm hand on John's shoulder. 

"I know what it's like." And John could see that maybe he did. 

"I have to go. Thanks for the drinks." John took his coat and weaved between the crowd, keep going, movement, keep busy. He needed to get out, fresh air, why was it so warm in here? The thinned blood from his drinks didn't help, raising the capillaries to the surface of his cheeks, he fumbled for his phone with his arms full of his coat and sent a text. 

A test. One final try. His clumsy fingers managed after a few tries to open his messages and type it without a typo.

_Are you busy? JW_

He managed to get out of the doors and slip his coat on, the chill of the night air refreshing against his heated cheeks. A buzz in his hand.

_No, why? SH_

Here goes nothing. 

_Can I come over? JW_

He felt a hand on his shoulder then. It was Jim. "Wait, John." His hand slipped from John's shoulder. He turned and faced the Irishman, it seemed as though the world had spun and he had stayed stationary. Way too much whiskey. But when Moriarty came into the centre of his vision, before his drunk and slow eyes could focus properly, lips met his.

Wh-what? They were soft, gentle, tentative- _foreign_ , not Sherlock. John moved backward a stiff frown etched on his brow. "What are you doing?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead he headed towards the main road for a taxi. Moriarty followed him, he could hear those expensive shoes on the pavement.

As he had just stepped past the light of a streetlamp, John felt a force grip his arms and spin him back around before he was pushed against the rough brick wall. It felt like a crash, his brain rattled. Wait- this wasn't Moriarty. His face was dark, that animatedly concerned face now just a demonic twist of a smile. John tried to catch his breath.

"Jooohhhnnn John Johnny Boy." The Irish carry of the vowels sang prettily, but it was so sinister. It was Moriarty. "We all deserve love, I can give you that. I can give you everything he can't." John felt the pressure on his shoulders lighten as the hands traveled down his torso, to his waist and curl around. How was this the same man.

"Get off me-" John wriggled, but was pushed again, this time Moriary's body pressed into John's and those lips grazed against his again as Moriarty spoke against them.

"He has no heart John, he will burn yours out of your chest and watch you _break_." The words felt like poison, John tossed his head to the side.

"FUCK OFF!" He yelled. "You know FUCK all about him, get OFF me." John shook himself, and some of the drunkenness also seemed to go with it, in one swift gesture he palmed Moriarty in the shoulders and swung a heavy awkward punch. It managed to hit him in the jaw, and John fell back from the effort against the brick. Now Moriarty was furious, and his agile and (slightly) more sober body pursued John. He held his forearm held against John's neck, who automatically grappled at the arm to pry it away, and strangely the lips met his once again. A kiss- an invasive tongue, John was furious, the forearm pressed tighter, a threat as if to say _reciprocate the kiss_ , John's mouth opened reluctantly and as he did the man that was forced against him disappeared. 

John panted and fell to the ground on his hands and knees, his eye level could see a pair of familiar thin legs in well fitted expensive trousers.

"Sherlock?" John choked, he could hear Moriarty laughing. What the hell was going on?

"You failed pathetically, as usual, Jim. I would leave at this precise moment, before I call the police." Sherlock's voice was stern and blunt. John glanced up, he was stood with just a tight shirt on, the sleeves were rolled up, he was in a very buoyant position, apt for another attack if necessary. Moriarty bowed his head, raised his shoulders and smirked as he shrugged, walking backwards before he reached a safe distance to disappear around the corner.

John coughed as his panting leveled out, Sherlock held out a hand for him to take. It was bloody, the knuckle was grazed, he must have hit Moriarty hard. He stood up and stumbled into Sherlock, the rush of alcohol always seemed fresh once you go from sitting to standing (or in John's case- kneeling). Sherlock caught him, and guided him into a cab- had Sherlock only just arrived? Oh- his texts. His brain was much slower at making connections when he was intoxicated.

John didn't ask where the cab was going, he just tried to erase the feeling of those lips against his. Those strange ones. Uninvited. The cab stopped on Baker Street, 221B. Upon entering, it was completely what John did _not_ expect. He thought Sherlock would be extravagant and dandy in his taste of property. But this place was cosy, cluttered and simple. He gestured for John to sit on the sofa. John couldn't help to inhale the scents of this flat, it smelt so strongly of Sherlock. His eyes shut, he could smell the cologne of the Friday's, the spiced tea of Tuesdays, the comforting sweetness of Wednesdays. A glass of water was placed on the coffee table and the couch beside John sank with Sherlock's weight.

"What you said- did- out there. That was- good." It was the oddest thing to hear, Sherlock pausing, he was normally so coherent and fluent in his speech.

"You heard it? How did you know where I was?" John was confused.

"I caught some of what you said as I got out of the cab, and don't insult me, of course I know you've been drinking before work. You always go to that bar." He nodded, a searing expression on his face.

"What was his problem?" John frowned, anger rising in his chest again as he remembered the liberty Moriarty had taken. How dare he?

"He hated me because I wouldn't give him what he wanted when we were at University." Sherlock was staring at John's lips, they were tainted with _him_.

John became conscious that his lips were being analysed, and he licked them, they were slightly swollen with the force Moriarty had mashed them with. Sherlock shuffled and glanced up at John. When their eyes connected, John melted, all the pain ebbed to the surface and before he knew it;

"Why can't you love me back?" The words fell out of his mouth, he could practically hear them fall and shatter on the ground. His entire body froze, he had not meant to say that out loud. Sherlock was taken aback, his brow furrowed as his lips pressed together slightly. John sagged, after tonight it would all be over, he couldn't emotionally compromise himself every day, his heart couldn't stand at a mark with a whole army shooting at it each day. He had to cut himself lose. He closed his eyes, and exhaled (it was a little shakier than he thought), he tried to expel all of his upset in that breath. 

"I just- can't hurt you John. I am a statue, emotionless, cold, some might say evil, calculated, maybe even criminal. I can't hurt you John." _Don't say my name, don't throw it around like that, please..._ Suddenly, heat, breath against his face. He opened his eyes, Sherlock was an inch away, an intense look in his eyes. "I am a bear trap, you're in a cage in the sea and I am the shark, it's dangerous, I'm selfish, but for _God's sake_ John, I love you." 

Those familiar lips were against his, slotted perfectly against his own. John's insides had melted, a burst of joy flooded him and he felt a new type of numb. He grabbed Sherlock's shirt, their breathing uneven, uncertain, trying to hold on as long as possible to this moment. How- why- What had stopped Sherlock telling him? Hot tongues now, suppressed groans. John allowed his coat, blazer and shirt to be peeled away, tantilisingly slow, making his skin tight as he shivered with anticipation for Sherlock's fingertips. John held Sherlock's face, his mouth unrelenting, erasing the feeling that Jim had ever been there, earning a restrained moan from Sherlock. John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and trousers, his impatient hands touching and stroking the warm flesh. His palms ducked into the dip of his lower back, cupped his shoulder blade, caressed Sherlock's slightly protruding ribs with his fingertips like piano keys. They were moving with such urgency that their fervor nearly tipped them both over the edge. John's trousers had been shuffled down and both of their restrained and aching cocks had been freed from their cotton prisons. 

Panting filled the air, the odd throaty growl from Sherlock and the muffled whimpers of John were masked by lips and collar bones. Sherlock held both of their achingly hard cocks in his hand and caressed them together; the image of his John laid out for him, pink with want and half-lidded with desire made him predatory. He shuffled down and pressed his lips against John's hard tip, painting his upper lip with his pre-come. John's hands slid into Sherlock's hair and gripped his head. The hot tongue was too much, he bucked into Sherlock's mouth desperate for more. "Please..." He whispered. And he was swallowed whole, the world condensed to that one point of moist pleasure, he felt himself toss his head left and right, overwhelmed with the burning and surging pleasure.

He wasn't going to last much longer, no, with a strong willpower he pushed Sherlock and flipped them over. He tried to regain some sort of control over his twitching nerves, he was _so close._ John moved his mouth down to Sherlock now, he wanted to hear that moan down his ear, he wanted to give him devastating amounts of pleasure. With his eager mouth John licked his tongue around Sherlock's tip, gently sucking just the top. He felt the fingers in his hair clench. Teasing. Sherlock's hips were moving upwards but John didn't allow him any deeper. His attentive tongue swirling, his lips slick with saliva, Sherlock's pre-come a pleasant salt on his taste buds. Sherlock would never beg, but the "Oh God" that resonated into John made him take him down in one. Sherlock gasped, unexpecting of John's ardor, who continued to smother Sherlock's sensitive nerve endings with his hot and slippery mouth. 

John's hands caressed Sherlock's thighs, hips, gently caressed his balls and assisted his mouth moving up and down with ease from the lubrication of his saliva. He felt the man beneath him curl tensely, his hand cupped one of John's ears and the other gripped his hair. He could tell Sherlock was close, and it wouldn't take long for himself either. He touched himself, the feeling of hard eager flesh in his mouth made it an easy job to come. With a stifled groan Sherlock filled John's mouth, who swallowed it with his own muffled cry as he had come from his own hand, they shared their orgasms together, convulsing and twitching against the other's pleasure.

After they caught their breaths, John lay over Sherlock. Slightly sobered, he lay his head on Sherlock's heart, the steady thump was slowing down from their heated moment. It was perfect- beyond that. His hope and faith and dedication to this man had almost faltered, but had been quickly restored, he felt resolute. There was a _them_ , something between them, they were _lovers_.

"I love you, John." The familiar voice with unfamiliar words warmed John entirely.

"I love you too."


End file.
